


Five People Who Learned of Harry Dresden’s Death, and One Who Didn’t

by sprl1199



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/pseuds/sprl1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five People Who Learned of Harry Dresden’s Death, and One Who Didn’t.  Written for Cedara for Yuletide 2010 (Happy Holidays!).  Featuring Thomas, Bob, Molly, Mouse, McCoy, and [Surprise].  Slight implication of Harry/Murphy, but otherwise gen.  Reference to off-screen violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five People Who Learned of Harry Dresden’s Death, and One Who Didn’t

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cedara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cedara/gifts).



> So, I realized once I started this fic that I had lent my copy of "Changes" to an out-of-state friend, and all of my library's copies were checked out through Christmas. Heaps (HEAPS) of thanks to grengome for supplying me with canon!details and some of Bob's choice phrases. Any continuity errors that remain are entirely my own (and I apologize profusely).

Prompt: _Post "Changes": Four characters/persons learn of Harry's presumed death: Thomas Raith, Bob, Molly Carpenter, Mouse (the Dog). I especially would love it if you can give me Mouse's perspective and not turn it into crack. If you feel like adding a fifth, I'd love to see Ebenezer McCoy's reactions, especially as he's Harry's granddad and mentor._

 **“Five People Who Learned of Harry Dresden’s Death, and One Who Didn’t”**

Thomas half expected to see the flashing red and blue lights when he pulls up at the dock, the bag of take out from that new Ethiopian place with the pretty waitresses sitting warm and steaming on the backseat. The part of himself that was whispering insouciantly in his ear for his immediate return to the Wraith mansion had been quieted under his memory of Harry’s white face as he raced desperately toward the temple and the child inside of it.

Besides, he still had to return the behemoth of a dog who was slobbering in his passenger seat.

So instead of a swift return home after ensuring Molly was as safe as she could be (at the hospital in the arms of her father), he had co-opted a vehicle and elected for food and teasing. He’s already planning an appropriately jaunty, witty overture to make to his little brother to cover his relief at seeing him safe. Maybe something along the lines of always suspecting that Harry was such a culinary philistine as to bring mayhem down upon the docks to avoid sampling the wat and injera that Thomas had picked up for him.

But Harry’s not there. It takes only a second for Thomas’s eyes to scan the milling policemen, and Harry’s towering, lanky form is nowhere among them. The ambulance is sitting quiet and closed with the EMTs standing in a loose circle and speaking in hushed tones, and something about the scene seems so immediately wrong to him, that he’s slipping from the driver’s seat with movements too quick and fluid to be truly human, shutting the door before Mouse can follow.

He glides toward the dock and he smells the scent of blood ( _family_ blood) a moment later, but not before he sees Sergeant Murphy’s face as she walks toward him. It’s at that moment that he _knows_.

“No,” he says as she reaches him. It isn’t said with anguish or denial or even any sort of discernable conviction, because with Murphy pale as ivory and seemingly aged a decade since he’d seen her last, he is unable to muster anything beyond the word itself.

Her skin looks as though it’s stretched too tight over her bones, and for the first time since he’d met her, Thomas is aware of how tiny she is: birdlike.

“Dispatch got a call thirty minutes ago from the marina’s owner,” she says, voice initially a rasp before it grows stronger. “He reported seeing a man fitting Harry‘s description fall into the water and not come out. First officers on scene found blood on the boat along with a bullet hole.” By the end of the sentence, she sounds as though she’s merely imparting the particulars on something to which she had no connection. As though she and Harry weren’t--

She pauses, and Thomas has to hold himself back from shaking her until she tells him where his brother is. He realizes his hands have curled into fists, and he has the presence of mind to shift them behind his back where they aren’t visible to the officers standing just beyond earshot.

“Divers are on their way,” Murphy adds. “They should arrive in ten minutes.” And it is here--as though it is the fact that there exists a discrete amount of time before the truth is known--that her voice breaks. A sob strains to break though, though she smothers it with iron control. Thomas isn’t sure whether he envies her ability to express her pain or her ability to quash it at will. At the moment, all he feels is numb: a dull buzzing in his ears that may or may not simply be a boat motor idling in the distance and the scent of wat mingling with the blood on the air.

They stand there without speaking just outside the crime scene perimeter while the divers--a team of four--suit up and enter the dark, now ominous looking water.

Lightning rends the air.

**

His boss was one lucky fool, Bob muses. Emphasis on the lucky because Sergeant Murphy is a smokin’ specimen of the hotter sex with a bodacious bod and a pixie cut, and emphasis on the _fool_ because it’d taken him _ages_ to finally go for it.

He hoped Harry didn’t remember he was there so he could listen in.

He hoped there’d be a repeat performance so he could _watch_.

Maybe he could finagle it so that he was on one of his ‘vacations’ during one of the assignations. He could lend a little of his own energy to the proceedings. Maybe bring in some popcorn.

Oooh, or a camera.

Not that his boss would support that idea, of course, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And it wasn’t like Bob would use it for _profit_ (though come to think of it, “Saucy Wendy vs. the Island of He-Men” included an insert about an adult film company accepting amateur submissions). If anything, it’d be _good_ for Harry to see actual proof that he can cut loose and make wild monkey love with the best of them.

Outside there’s a pop followed by a splash and Bob starts in surprise. Or at least, he would have, had he anything corporeal with which to start. But no other sounds of danger follow, and he turns his mind to more important matters.

Like Murphy’s breasts. Small, perhaps (though Bob liked to think of himself as an equal opportunity ogler) but well formed. Very symmetrical. Perky even, though he doubts that the Sergeant would appreciate the adjective.

Something tingles in the area of his substance that would fall in the brow of his skull were he actually inhabiting it the way it were meant to be inhabited, and he spares a wistful thought for a nose he could wrinkle in response.

Yes: breasts. Lovely, lovely breasts. Gazongas. Hooters. Ta-tas. Lots of words described breasts, a fact which could only be more proof of their importance: Knockers, rack, brick house, melons.

The tingle moved to an itch, and he shifts inside his skull in something that would be discomfort, had he nerve endings.

Where was he? Right: melons.

Cantaloupes, watermelons = members of the cucurbitaceous family. Approximately 125 extant genre in _Cucurbitaceae_ including 960 species.

The ‘breast’ is the upper ventral region of a primate torso. Necessary for imparting sustenance to infant humans through lactation. In sum, fleshy mounds encapsulating modified soporiferous glands.

The itch moves into a flare of pain followed by darkness, and he stops thinking entirely.

**

When Molly wakes next, it’s well after dark, and the hospital is quiet and dark, the soft footfalls and murmurs of the nurses a gentle backdrop. A curtain had been drawn around her bed for the illusion of privacy, and she can see a soft light spilling under it from the other side of the room.

She sits up, wincing slightly as it pulls on her bandage before pulling herself to her feet and moving toward the source of the light, feeling a rush of satisfaction and pride at this small triumph before she quashes it. _Pride goeth, padawan._

Her father is sitting on the edge of the vacant bed facing the dark window, head bowed, hands clasped before him in a gesture of prayer that Molly had seen many times before. But as he raises his head at Molly's movement, she doesn't see the peaceful expression that typically adorns his face during such moments.

He looks haggard, the lines around his eyes carved more deeply than Molly can ever remember seeing, including his period of recovery following the horrors of the island and his recognition of the need to pass the sword.

"Molly, honey," he says extending a hand to her, and his voice is deeper than usual, shot through with something that it takes her a moment to realize is pain. "Come sit down."

She doesn't move. "Dad? What is it? Why are you up?"

His blue eyes are steady and so, so sad, and she can't help but cycle through the list of her younger siblings, each of their faces flashing in her mind. "What's the matter?" she asks, and she realizes her voice has a tinge of panic in it. "Is everyone okay? Where's-- where's Mom?"

Her dad is quick to soothe. "Your mother is fine, and so are your brothers and sisters. They're home in bed. Honey, it's Harry."

"What about Harry?" she asks absently, the whirling relief at knowing that no other tragedy had befallen her family making her head feel light. "Does he need our help with something? You think he'd give us at least one night off."

She's speaking without thinking, and it takes a moment for her to make the connection between her dad's grave expression and his words.

"You're wrong," she says inanely, though he hasn't said anything. "He got out of the temple. He's fine, Thomas said."

Her dad's expression is so empathetic, reflecting her own pain back at her, that she has to look away. There's something hot welling in her chest, and she clenches her teeth to keep it from escaping. Her dad is speaking quietly, but the words-- _gunshot_ , _marina_ , _police_ \--don’t penetrate.

"Molly," then her mother is there, having come silently in from the hallway, and her face is like granite. Rock solid.

"Mom," she cries--sobs really--and throws herself into her. Her mom's arms close around her tightly as Molly collapses into her body, protective and sheltering.

"It's not fair!" Molly cries into her breast, hyperventilating slightly. "We got out! We got away! This isn't right!"

"Shhh, child," her mom hushes her, rocking her gently in her embrace. "There's a plan at work. One that we cannot stand in judgment of."

"What sort of plan calls for the blood of good men?" Molly asks, her voice quieter now, and bitter. Something dark twists in her chest near the bullet wound, and she focuses on it as she tries to force her breathing to calm.

Her mom looks at her father, eyes mournful, and does not answer.

Outside, the invisible clouds open, and rain pours down in a torrent.

**

The sound of the door closing to encase him in the metal and leather box had only just begun to echo inside the small space when Mouse realizes that Dresden is lost.

The connection he had formed with the wizard, that nebulous tie between their auras, is not anchored on both ends, and Mouse can no longer delude himself into thinking as he had on the trip from the ocean that perhaps it was the geographical distance between them that had caused the feeling of loss.

It feels like the absence of a soft sound one had expected to hear (a wind chime suddenly gone silent).

It feels like a severed limb.

All this echoes through his mind in an instant, and before the sound of the door closing has reached the police (helpless, _useless_ on the dock), he is howling his fury and his grief.

The sound tears open the sky, and wrathful thunder echoes across the lake.

**

Ebenezer pushes the half empty fifth of whiskey across the table and raises bleary eyes to his uninvited guest.

“Help yourself, hoss,” he says in an alcohol roughened voice. “Though if you do, I expect you’ll be ponying up some of your own hooch to replace it.“ Despite his appearance sprawled across the rough-hewn chair, he’s nowhere near drunk enough.

Injun Joe doesn’t take the bottle, but he does take a the opposite chair, sitting down gracefully and looking at Ebenezer with dark, compassionate eyes.

“There is an Ute prayer,” Joseph says in a low, melodic voice. “It is a supplication to the Earth to teach her wisdom. ‘Earth teach me acceptance - as the leaves that die each fall--'”

Ebenezer cuts him off. “Can it. I got no mind to hear your bullshit tonight.” He belligerently and emphatically reaches to reclaim the whiskey and raise it to his mouth.

Joseph watches him drink, and Ebenezer finds the words tumbling from his mouth.

“No prayer will make up for the fact that I failed her twice. There‘s nothing in this world or the next that can put that right. And now I’ve failed him too. My grandson.” Tears choke his voice, and he swallows more whiskey to drown it. They sit in silence, and Ebenezer welcomes the blank fog the alcohol makes of his memories.

“Perhaps--” the Indian says after a time before cutting himself off, face uncharacteristically hesitant. “Perhaps it is better this wa--”

“Hold your tongue,” Ebenezer growls dangerously. “Or get the hell out of my cabin.”

His old friend bows his head in acquiescence and does not speak while he consumes the rest of the whiskey.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, shielding the trees from view.

**

They squatted in a loose circle while Ryan lit the small pieces of paper on fire with the lighter. He’d taken it from his brother, she thinks, knowing that the older boy would sneak into the woods to share cigarettes with the other teenagers after school.

They’re very careful, and they’d taken the time to hollow out a little space in the dirt before starting this experiment. Even so, they’re shooting nervous glances over their shoulders, eyes peeled for any sign of an adult coming to look behind the shed.

Maggie shares a glance with Suzette, and they giggle at the excitement of breaking the rules.

The flame has caught now, and the small glow reminds Maggie of the birthday candles she had blown out recently, the first in her life.

 _“Espero que me llame mama,”_ Madeline had said in stilted, awkward Spanish when Maggie came to live with her, a beautiful, shy smile on her face that Maggie had felt herself returning.

There’s the sound of footsteps around the corner, and Ryan panics, pushing the mounded dirt over their small flame and smothering it.

Maggie stares transfixed at the place where the fire had been so abruptly snuffed out, and feels unexpectedly sad for a reason she cannot name. Tears well in her eyes.

Suzette grabs her hand and pulls her along as they run with the other children back to the tree-lined street. “Come on, Maggie,” she says, laughing and brimming with life.

Maggie smiles back, the strange melancholy lifting as quickly as it had descended, and runs with her in the clear, afternoon sunshine.


End file.
